Winterkill
by Okami No Yume
Summary: "Oh my sweet summer child. What do you know of fear? Fear is for the winter." Jaime's musings on Brienne as they struggle to survive the horrors found beyond the Wall. One shot, AU. Originally written for the got exchange on Livejournal.


**Winterkill**

**Obligatory** **Disclaimer**: I do not own _Game of_ _Thrones _ or _A Song of Ice and Fire_. It is the property of the fine and very talented George R. R. Martin and HBO.

**Spoilers**: Some for A Storm of Swords, branches off into AU territory.

Originally written for a fic swap on Livejournal.

* * *

Jaime Lannister always looked the part of the knight. Fine, handsome features, hair so golden that it appeared kissed by sunlight, tall, muscular frame, and he had always been quick with the sword. Truly, he had been the pride of Casterly Rock, and he'd made many a lovely maiden sigh and murmur over him as they all wished and dreamed that they could be his lady wife. Of course, they were bitterly disappointed in that regard, since knights elevated to the Kingsguard could never marry.

However, he noted wryly, that did not stop those who were less scrupulous from taking women to warm their beds. Jaime had always thought that the knight's vow of celibacy was overrated, and thus, he'd never taken it very seriously.

After all, no vow could keep him from his beautiful Cersei.

Cersei, Cersei, Cersei. Gods how he missed her. He missed the softness of her skin, her eyes as green as emeralds, and a magnificent mane of silky golden hair that he'd buried his face into during their couplings as he fucked her and she screamed his name, and then they would lay snuggled together, sweating and sated beneath silken sheets.

Of course, the disgraced knight was far from King's Landing, and was unlikely to see Cersei ever again.

Jaime and Brienne had been dogged tirelessly at every step by Stark and Lannister men alike. They'd been pushed further and further north until they somehow had ended up beyond the Wall.

The land beyond the Wall was rife with legends of grumps, snarks, wildlings, and giants, and the white walkers. In the safety of a mead hall at King's Landing Jaime would have once scoffed at those superstitious folk that believed in such silly, childish things.

That is, until he saw them himself, in these lands that he was sure would be forsaken by the Seven. Even if he were a Septon, Jaime highly doubted that the Maiden, Mother, or Warrior would hear his prayers.

Jaime would never forget how he and Brienne both stood back to back, surrounded by the undead horrors, their skin an awful, sickly purple white, their open mouths full of blood-stained blackened teeth, some walking on broken ankles, others had open, gaping wounds; some were missing eyes, ears, throats, hands.

How they had managed to fight the ghastly things off and escape had been a miracle. How many had there been? A dozen? Twenty? Jaime had never bothered to count, all they knew was that they had come out of the encounter _alive_.

After that, the two knights had made the grim promise to each other that if one of them died at the hands of the White Walkers, the other would burn their corpse so that they wouldn't come back as one of _them_.

Jaime knew that in all likelihood, one of them would have to fulfill that gruesome pact sooner or later.

He hoped that he wouldn't have to be the one to do it, because deep down, he would have been a fool to admit that he wasn't afraid of being alone out here in this freezing wilderness, with only one hand to grip a sword to keep the white walkers at bay.

Jaime didn't fear death itself. He'd always figured that his life wouldn't be a long one, and he would die a glorious death on some battlefield, hopefully against a worthy opponent. He had no wish to become old, feeble, and decrepit.

He studied his companion across the light of the campfire. To call Brienne "horsefaced" almost would have been a generous comparison. There was no doubt that she was hideous, but he'd become more than accustomed to her unusual features. And yet, somehow, she was the truest example of a knight he'd ever come across.

In Jaime's eyes, the idea of honor was nothing more than a load of horseshit. But to Brienne, honor was everything, and her stubborn adherence to the knight's code was almost endearing in a way. At least there was someone out there who believed in that hogswill. Honor, he supposed, was what had prevented her from giving him a red smile when she'd had plenty of opportunity to do so since she hadn't been subtle about her disdain towards him from the day they'd met, insisting on calling him Kingslayer rather than his given name. And of course, he'd called her "wench" in kind. It had almost become a game, their constant sniping at one another.

Oh, how he hated that nickname. It had always been said with scorn, disgust, and mockery, as if he were some sort of monster.

_Because Aerys Targaryen was such a kind, benevolent ruler,_he mused to himself sardonically, _A regular paragon of virtue and goodness._

The horrifying things that Jaime had been forced to bear witness to would have scarred the soul of a lesser man. He remembered that he had drunk himself into a near stupor just so that he wouldn't have to hear the screams of Aerys' victims in his nightmares.

According to Brienne, it was a knight's duty to defend the king, no matter what. It was the most sacred duty that one could be granted.

Even if he was the sort of king who roasted men alive in their armor for his own savage amusement.

According to many, Jaime Lannister was a coward and a traitor, unworthy of bearing the golden cloak.

There were many who did not know the truth, that had he not plunged his sword into Aerys' back, then King's Landing would have been laid to ruin, burned to nothing but smoke and ash.

Jaime had been their saviour, and yet, he'd been condemned for it. He knew that no songs would be sung for his deed, and he would forever be treated with hatred and derision because of a perceived act of grave dishonor.

Honor. What was honor, really, when compared with saving the lives of thousands who would have otherwise perished all because of the whims of a deranged tyrant?

He hadn't said any of this to Brienne, although he wanted to. He supposed that he could let her cling to her lofty ideals of nobility and honor, even in their dire situation. She would defend him to her last breath, he knew, and he supposed he owed her a debt of gratitude.

Also, if her delusions of grandeur were going to be shattered, he wouldn't be the one to tear them asunder.

Even he wasn't that cruel.

**FIN**


End file.
